I know how this will end. I can already see it, my weight triggering
the pressure plate as I watch it slowly sink into the ground.
I know that I will fall. I know the panic, the fear, that will crawl its
way up my throat and into my mouth, escaping between my lips in a
strangled cry as I descend. I know how I’ll hit the ground, a sharp pain
flaring in my spine, an obnoxious ringing in my ears that ricochets back
and forth off of the walls of my skull, the way the wind is knocked out
of me and the shallow, desperate gasps that follow.
I know that a fog-like darkness will begin to surround me, rapidly
closing in until it completely consumes my body, the black smoke filling
up my lungs as I try fruitlessly to breathe. I know the pitiful tears that
will fall down the sides of my face as I lie on my back, suffocating and
paralyzed. I know that my oxygen-deprived brain will start to shut down
as I struggle to maintain consciousness, fighting to keep my eyes open,
to keep living.
I know that in the end, I will let go, the fight draining from my
limp body as I accept defeat. I know that I will lose. I know.
I know, even as my foot inevitably moves to take that final step,
the pressure plate awaiting.